So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  “You do understand. That is why he is here.” Rowland might have laughed if he were not so furious. “Can you credit this? He marched an army across France during winter for a servant! For a servant!”

  “Then maybe not a servant,” Luthor ventured, murmuring.

  “I do not give a damn what she is!” Rowland stormed. “He cannot have her.”

  “You will fight a man who saved your life?”

  “If I must I will fight his whole army.”

  “Rowland, then there is no need for you to go out there,” Luthor said rapidly. “They cannot take the wench if we do not open the gates for them.”

  Luthor was willing to back Rowland when this was not his fight. Rowland did not fail to understand that.

  “I will still go down,” Rowland said in a calmer tone. “I owe him that courtesy.”

  “Very well,” Luthor agreed. “But at the first sign of trouble an arrow will pierce his heart.”

  Rowland rode through the gates at a swift gallop. Quintin had moved back to a distance halfway between Montville and his army. So much for Luthor’s arrow, Rowland thought with dark humor. He was angry, furiously so. Lady Druoda had lied to him. There was no way Quintin could have known where to find Brigitte unless Druoda had told him. But his anger came not so much from that as from jealousy. Another man wanted his Brigitte enough to bring an army to take her away. Was Quintin de Louroux so in love with her still?

  Quintin watched the approach of Rowland of Montville with narrowed eyes. He was burning with a violent, bitter rage, rage that had stayed with him since leaving Louroux more than a fortnight before. His rage had festered and grown since then.

  Druoda had confessed everything, confessed to scheming and conniving to obtain Louroux for herself, confessed to forcing Brigitte into betrothal to Wilhelm d’Arsnay, confessed to keeping Brigitte from Arnulf, confessed to beating her.

  Rowland of Montville had raped Brigitte. Knowing who she was, Druoda said, the man had still raped her. In doing this he had ruined Druoda’s plans. Druoda confessed to panicking when Quintin came home, trying to poison him. She had begged his mercy. He was merciful in that, wanting to kill her, he had only banished her.

  It was Rowland he now wanted to kill, Rowland, whom he had sent in good faith to Louroux, who had repaid the debt he owed Quintin by raping Brigitte and taking her from her home.

  The two warhorses came face to face in the open field, the Hun outflanking the French horse by half a foot. As the horses were unmatched, so too were the riders. Rowland had disdained his helm and shield, wearing only a sword strapped to his hip, while Quintin was in full armor. Still, Rowland was the bigger of the two, the stronger, and perhaps the more skilled.

  “Is she here, Norman?” Quintin demanded.

  “She is here.”

  “Then I must kill you.

  “If you want to see me dead, Baron, you will have to send a dozen of your strongest men to challenge me.”

  “Your arrogance does not move me,” Quintin replied. “Nor do I send others to fight in my stead, Sir Rowland. I will be the one to kill you. And then Lady Brigitte will be taken home.”

  Rowland took the truth without showing that his worst fear had been realized. Lady Brigitte. Lady! So, it was true.

  “This is Brigitte’s home now,” Rowland said evenly. “She will be my wife.”

  Now Quintin laughed unpleasantly. “Do you think I would allow her to marry the likes of you?”

  “If you are dead, you will have little indeed to say of it,” Rowland said evenly.

  “My lord Arnulf knows my wishes in this regard. If I die, he will be Brigitte’s lord, and he is here now to see that she is taken from you.”

  “So, you brought the whole of Berry to her rescue, eh? You will need a greater army than that to break through the walls of Montville.”

  “If that is what it will take, so be it. But if you cared anything at all for Brigitte, you would let her go. You and I will still battle, but she must not be made to feel that she brought about deaths. And there will be many deaths here.”

  “I will not give her up,” Rowland said in a quiet voice.

  “Then defend yourself,” Quintin replied harshly, and drew his sword.

  The clang of steel brought men running to the top of Montville’s walls. Brigitte, having grown impatient waiting in the hall, quickly followed the others to the walls.

  She recognized Rowland and his warhorse right away, caught her breath, and held it. He was waging a furious assault against his opponent, yet he was without armor. The fool! He could die so easily!

  She saw Luthor several feet away and went to him. “Why are they fighting?” she demanded, her fear for Rowland making her tone harsh. “Will there be no war—only this battle?”

  Luthor looked down at her solemnly. “You should not be up here, damosel.”

  “Tell me!” Her voice rose to a high pitch. “What does this mean? Why does Thurston fight Rowland?”

  “It is not Thurston. But if you fear for Rowland, you need not,” Luthor replied with pride. “The Frenchman is an easy prey.”

  “Frenchman? A French army?”

  Brigitte stared out over the wall at the army lining the long crest of the hill. She saw many banners, some she recognized. And then she saw Arnulf’s and gasped. He had come for her after all! And beside his banner was—oh God! Her eyes flew to the knight on the field with Rowland, and she screamed.

  Quintin heard Brigitte screaming his name. What he heard was her plea for rescue. Rowland heard her, but what he heard in her voice was joy. The effect on each man was the same, however. Each now wanted more than ever to draw the other’s blood.

  Quintin was struck from his horse, and they fought on the ground. Already the mighty blows Quintin was fending off were telling on him. He knew as well as any man could that he was going to die. But he would not die until he had made every effort and used all of his strength.

  It was no good. Rowland was just too strong for Quintin, and too skilled. Without even a shield, he blocked Quintin. Rowland kept him on the defensive for many minutes, and then Quintin felt that sword breaking through the chain links of his mail and slip smoothly into his shoulder.

  The pain! Quintin dropped to his knees. He did not mean to, but his legs gave way. He tried to hold on to his sword, but he had lost his grip as well as the use of his legs. And in that moment Rowland’s sword was at his throat.

  “It would be easy. You know that, eh?” Rowland said coldly, putting just enough pressure on the sword that a trickle of blood ran down Quintin’s neck.

  Quintin disdained to answer. His shoulder throbbed. He had failed. Oh, Brigitte!

  The sword fell abruptly away. “I give you your life, Quintin de Louroux,” Rowland pronounced. “I give it to you only because I owe it to you. Thus we are even now. My debt is paid.”

  Rowland mounted and rode back to Montville as four French knights rode down the southern hill to collect their fallen lord. Brigitte. She knew—she knew! She had seen Quintin. And she was Lady Brigitte, Quintin’s ward. No wonder he meant to marry her. A lady, not a serf. Druoda had lied to him! But she had not lied about what Brigitte and Quintin felt for each other. That was obvious. And obvious too was the realization that Brigitte would never stay willingly with him. Rowland had heard the joy in her voice as she cried out to Quintin, her love.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “What the hell was Brigitte doing up on the wall?” Rowland demanded when Luthor met him in the stable.

  “She came up with the others to witness a splendid fight,” Luthor replied in good humor. “You showed those French what they are up against, by God!”

  “Where is she now?” Rowland snapped irritably.

  “Ah, well, the wench is not as strong as I supposed. She fainted dead away when you bested the French knight. I had her taken to your room.”

  Rowland ran from the stable into the hall, charged up the stairs, and threw open the door to his room.

>   Brigitte lay on his bed, unconscious. The noise stirred her, and she began to moan. But she was still not quite conscious, lost in some torment deep within her.

  Rowland sat down beside her and smoothed the hair back from her face. “Brigitte? Brigitte!” he said more firmly, patting her cheek.

  Her eyes opened, and then widened when they fell on Rowland. A sob tore from her throat, and she began pounding her fists on his chest until he grabbed them.

  “You killed him!” Brigitte screamed shrilly. “You killed him!”

  Rowland’s eyes narrowed with anger. “He is not dead,” he said curtly, “he is wounded.”

  He watched the play of emotions that swiftly crossed Brigitte’s face. She sat up.

  “I must go to him.”

  But he held her firmly on the bed. “You will not go to him, Brigitte.”

  “I must!”

  “No!” he said harshly, and then, “I know who he is, Brigitte.”

  This statement shocked her. “You know? You know and yet you fought him! Oh, God, I hate you!” she sobbed. “I thought you cared a little for me. But you have no heart. You are made of stone!”

  Rowland was surprised by the depth of his own hurt. “I could do nothing else but fight him!” he told her furiously. “I will not let him have you! The only way you will marry him is if I am dead, Brigitte!”

  “Marry him?” she cried brokenly. “Marry my brother?”

  Rowland fell back, staring at her stupidly “Brother?”

  “How dare you pretend? You know Quintin is my brother! You said so!”

  Rowland shook his head, stunned. “I thought him your lord. Quintin de Louroux is your brother? Why did you not tell me?”

  Brigitte heard his denial through her sobbing. “I thought he was dead, and it was too painful to speak of.”

  “Then who is Druoda if not his sister? She told me he meant to marry you, but that she would prevent it. She said she would kill you before he returned to Louroux unless I agreed to take you with me.”

  “Lies, all lies!” Brigitte stormed. “She is Quintin’s aunt. I told you, and told you that she had lied about me. Why could you not believe…?” Brigitte gasped. “Before Quintin returned to Louroux? You knew he would return? You knew he was alive, and you did not tell me?”

  Rowland could not meet her gaze. “I thought you loved him, that you would try to return to him,” he began.

  But Brigitte was too enraged to listen. “Loved him? Of course I love him! He is my brother. He is the only family I have. And I am going to him—now!”

  She scrambled from the bed, but Rowland caught her around the waist before she reached the door. “Brigitte, I cannot allow it. If I let you go to him, he will stop you from coming back to me.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “Do you think I want to come back? I never want to see your face again! You fought my brother, and you nearly killed him!”

  “You are not leaving here, Brigitte,” Rowland said with stony finality.

  “I hate you, Rowland!” she hissed. “You can keep me here, but you will never have me again. I will kill myself if you do!”

  She collapsed on the floor in broken sobs. Rowland stood staring at her, and then left the room.

  It was late night. The French army had withdrawn that day, but not far. Smoke spiraling over the hilltop from many camp fires gave evidence that the French knights were only just beyond the hill. They intended to stay.

  Rowland had not gone back to his room for the rest of the day. He didn’t know what to say to Brigitte. Each time he thought of what he might say to her, he imagined her reply, and he realized he could not face her.

  He had stubbornly refused to believe her all those many weeks, when all along she had told the truth. He had raped a gentlebred lady. He had forced her to serve him. He had treated her very badly. She had forgiven him for all of that. Miraculously, she had forgiven him. But she would not forgive him for fighting her brother. She would never forgive him for that, or for failing to tell her that Quintin was alive. He had no right to keep her, but he could not bear the thought of losing her. And Quintin would never let Rowland have her in marriage.

  Perhaps when Quintin realized he would never see his sister again unless he agreed to the marriage, then the Frenchman might relent. Brigitte would not be willing, but a woman could be married without her consent. Only the guardian’s permission was necessary.

  Perhaps if he told her, if she knew how sorry he was for every wrong he had done her, then she would hate him less. He had to see her. He could not stand imagining her hatred any longer.

  Rowland opened the door to his room with a small degree of hope, more than he had felt all day. But the room was empty. Brigitte’s possessions were still there, but she was not. A search of the manor only wasted time. Neither Brigitte nor her dog could be found. What was found at last was that the door in the rear wall had been unbolted from within and left unbolted.

  Rowland ran and saddled the Hun. Brigitte had to have left after dark, or someone would have seen her crossing the field. Perhaps she had not yet reached the French camp. Maybe, maybe he could catch her before she did. He had to hope.

  At last, his heart beating wildly, he crested the top of the southern hill. There was no army beyond it now, nothing but empty pasture and the remains of many camp fires, cold now, ashes blowing over trampled snow.

  “Brigitte! Brigitte!” It was a passionate, hopeless cry that no one heard except the wind.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Brigitte huddled in the wagon next to her brother. They were in no real hurry, for the knights of Berry would have welcomed pursuit. It was slow traveling, but each hour took them farther and farther from Montville.

  Brigitte leaned her head back wearily and stared up at the starless sky. Quintin slept fitfully. He was burning with fever and in pain, moaning in his sleep, and she could not help him. She had even worsened his condition, for they had argued terribly, just as terribly as she had fought with Rowland.

  Quintin had not wanted to leave. He was fierce about staying. He wanted to attack Montville, to reduce the walled fief to rubble. What he wanted most was Rowland’s head. She had paled when she heard that. She didn’t know exactly how it had happened, but suddenly she was defending Rowland.

  “He spared your life! He let you live when he could have killed you!” she had cried.

  But Quintin’s black rage had not cooled. It had even grown. “He must die for what he has done to you!”

  “But Rowland is not at fault for what happened,” Brigitte insisted. “Druoda is.”

  “No, Brigitte. The Norman convinced Druoda to let him take you away.”

  Brigitte considered the idea and then laughed bitterly at the absurdity of it. “Did she tell you that? Ah, Quintin, do you not know yet how skillfully she lies? Rowland did not want me. He was furious that he had to take me with him. He may want me now, but he did not then. Druoda told him she would kill me if he did not take me. And because of what he had done to me, he agreed.”

  “That is another reason he must die!”

  “That did not even happen at Louroux!” Brigitte had countered.

  “You—you are saying he did not rape you?”

  “No. He was drunk, and I was too terrified to speak. We both thought it had happened, but the truth is that he passed out, and I fainted. In the morning, we both assumed the deed had been done, and so did Druoda. But it was all a mistake.”

  “He still took you away, knowing you were my sister, knowing Druoda had no right to give you to him!”

  “Is this more of Druoda’s lying? Rowland thought me a servant. He would not believe me when I told him otherwise because that is what Druoda convinced him I was. Even today, when you came, he thought you were my lord. He did not know I was your sister. He thought Druoda was your sister.”

  “Why would Druoda still lie to me, after she had admitted everything else she had done?”

  “Can you not guess?” Brigitte asked. “Th
e answer comes easily to me, for I know her, having lived with her. She made her own deeds seem less terrible by lying about Rowland’s. Did you kill her?”

  “No, I banished her.

  “You see? She has been let off lightly, but you came here to kill Rowland. You still want to kill him, even when he spared your life.

  “But Rowland knew you lived, and he never told me,” Brigitte said then, more to herself than to him. “I thought you dead until today.”

  “You cannot defend him for that, Brigitte, for I sent him to Louroux to tell you I lived.”

  “He told Druoda, thinking her your sister. He did do as you bid him, Quintin.”

  “You make excuses for him,” Quintin accused. “Why do you defend him?”

  Brigitte cast her eyes down before admitting softly, “I have been happy here, Quintin. I was not at first, but then I became happy. I do not want you to kill Rowland any more than I want him to kill you. And one of you will certainly die if we do not leave here. I want to go home now. No more need be done. I do not need to be avenged, for I have not been harmed.”

  “You are saying he never touched you in all this time?” Quintin asked doubtfully.

  “He did not,” Brigitte replied firmly, hoping the lie would put an end to it.

  It did. Quintin agreed to leave. No more was said.

  She would never see Rowland again. She would bury her feelings for him, never to remember them ever again. Somehow she would manage to forget everything that had passed between her and Rowland of Montville.

  Chapter Forty

  The warming breath of spring thawed the land and brought Thurston of Mezidon to Montville. The Norman army was not so impressive, not after Montville had been threatened by a much greater army only months before. There were at least two hundred fighting men with Thurston, but no more than a dozen trained knights.

  Rowland looked with disdain at the gathering of men come to take Montville from him. Mercenaries, most of them, perhaps a few good fighting men, but mostly peasants trying to better their lot. There was no loyalty there. Men for hire would not fight to the bitter end.